Talmadge seemed hypnotized and . . . and, well, not
stoned,
because Tal had almost always been stoned, but another kind of stoned, a deeper, aura-altering kind, like one of those chanting, hollow-eyed cult members you sometimes saw on TV, praising King Dwight or the Prophet Bob as ATF agents led them from their raided compound or out of some sick jungle fortress. Though on second thought: That was overkill, man, Tal wasn’t like
that.
But
still,
Matty thought, as he noted the absence of lamps and the excess of candles in the room—an entire wax skyline on that side table alone—and realized, with an almost physical jolt, that Talmadge was living, in deepest gaudy Manhattan, without electricity: What the fuck?
The answer appeared from the hallway to his left, looping her naked arms around his neck and planting a noticeably wet though somehow chilly kiss on his cheek: This was Micah, and this, Matty thought, explained everything. Not that she was quote-unquote beautiful; her face, with its overgrown eyebrows and robust nose and jaw, was at certain angles mannish, and there was a faint thickness to her—the cushy way her goosepimpled upper arms settled on his shoulders—that would make Matty, a connoisseur of internet porn, click to another model, were she beckoning to him from his computer screen. Her hair was in dreadlocks, dark and glossy at the roots but woolly and hay-colored at the ends, and she was wearing an aquamarine tank top, with a pink bra beneath it, and an ivory floor-length skirt that swished about her legs. Her left arm and shoulder were overlaid with tattoos—a sleeve of flowers growing out of her wrist—that complemented the downy brown tufts of hair spilling from her armpits, and a silver stud glinted from the side of her nose. If she wasn’t Matty’s type—in his time out west, he’d developed a thing for Asian girls—he could understand the allure anyway: She was like the cakey, crumbly, worm-turned soil that farmers scooped and lifted to their noses in the early spring and sniffed like truffles. Discovering soil like that made people stop and settle, froze wagon trains in their tracks. She was beautiful the way Kansas, which Matty had watched pass outside the bus window as an infinite sheet of gold, was beautiful. She could make you want to put down roots—could make you want to grow.
“Here,” Matty said, digging the fifth of Heaven Hill whiskey from his pack. “A little Thanksgiving present.” A quick wink at Talmadge. “Some of it evaporated on the ride.”
“Thank you,” she said, cradling the bottle. “That’s sweet.”
Talmadge said, “Micah’s straight edge.”
“Oh shit,” said Matty, grabbing the bottle from her and slamming it into Talmadge’s chest. “I know
he
still parties.”
“Yeah,” she said lightly. Matty missed the subtle signal of tension—a dimple that formed just below her left eye, when her jaw tightened—as he shook one of Talmadge’s shoulders. “I haven’t seen this dog in, like, what, three years? Four?” he said. “I used to live with him so I can relate to the nightmare you’re living.”
“You two went to college together, right?”
“Matty was on a soccer scholarship,” said Talmadge.
“Briefly,” Matty said.
“But—your accent,” Micah said. “You’re not—Mississippi?”
“Jersey, baby. Mahwah. Yankee all the way. Ole Miss offered me the best deal. I was gonna be like General Sherman and burn the whole state down. But I ended up burning too much other shit with this dude.”
“You gonna see your parents?” Talmadge asked him.
“Nah. We sorta cut things off after all that shit went down in Portland. They don’t know I’m here.”
“Portland’s cool,” Micah said.
“Yeah, well, mostly I saw Salem. I did some time at the, erm, prison there.” The jumbled way he revealed that—the cheeky “erm” rubbing against the stoical “I did some time”—suggested that Matty hadn’t yet figured out how to
stoned,
because Tal had almost always been stoned, but another kind of stoned, a deeper, aura-altering kind, like one of those chanting, hollow-eyed cult members you sometimes saw on TV, praising King Dwight or the Prophet Bob as ATF agents led them from their raided compound or out of some sick jungle fortress. Though on second thought: That was overkill, man, Tal wasn’t like
that.
But
still,
Matty thought, as he noted the absence of lamps and the excess of candles in the room—an entire wax skyline on that side table alone—and realized, with an almost physical jolt, that Talmadge was living, in deepest gaudy Manhattan, without electricity: What the fuck?
The answer appeared from the hallway to his left, looping her naked arms around his neck and planting a noticeably wet though somehow chilly kiss on his cheek: This was Micah, and this, Matty thought, explained everything. Not that she was quote-unquote beautiful; her face, with its overgrown eyebrows and robust nose and jaw, was at certain angles mannish, and there was a faint thickness to her—the cushy way her goosepimpled upper arms settled on his shoulders—that would make Matty, a connoisseur of internet porn, click to another model, were she beckoning to him from his computer screen. Her hair was in dreadlocks, dark and glossy at the roots but woolly and hay-colored at the ends, and she was wearing an aquamarine tank top, with a pink bra beneath it, and an ivory floor-length skirt that swished about her legs. Her left arm and shoulder were overlaid with tattoos—a sleeve of flowers growing out of her wrist—that complemented the downy brown tufts of hair spilling from her armpits, and a silver stud glinted from the side of her nose. If she wasn’t Matty’s type—in his time out west, he’d developed a thing for Asian girls—he could understand the allure anyway: She was like the cakey, crumbly, worm-turned soil that farmers scooped and lifted to their noses in the early spring and sniffed like truffles. Discovering soil like that made people stop and settle, froze wagon trains in their tracks. She was beautiful the way Kansas, which Matty had watched pass outside the bus window as an infinite sheet of gold, was beautiful. She could make you want to put down roots—could make you want to grow.
“Here,” Matty said, digging the fifth of Heaven Hill whiskey from his pack. “A little Thanksgiving present.” A quick wink at Talmadge. “Some of it evaporated on the ride.”
“Thank you,” she said, cradling the bottle. “That’s sweet.”
Talmadge said, “Micah’s straight edge.”
“Oh shit,” said Matty, grabbing the bottle from her and slamming it into Talmadge’s chest. “I know
he
still parties.”
“Yeah,” she said lightly. Matty missed the subtle signal of tension—a dimple that formed just below her left eye, when her jaw tightened—as he shook one of Talmadge’s shoulders. “I haven’t seen this dog in, like, what, three years? Four?” he said. “I used to live with him so I can relate to the nightmare you’re living.”
“You two went to college together, right?”
“Matty was on a soccer scholarship,” said Talmadge.
“Briefly,” Matty said.
“But—your accent,” Micah said. “You’re not—Mississippi?”
“Jersey, baby. Mahwah. Yankee all the way. Ole Miss offered me the best deal. I was gonna be like General Sherman and burn the whole state down. But I ended up burning too much other shit with this dude.”
“You gonna see your parents?” Talmadge asked him.
“Nah. We sorta cut things off after all that shit went down in Portland. They don’t know I’m here.”
“Portland’s cool,” Micah said.
“Yeah, well, mostly I saw Salem. I did some time at the, erm, prison there.” The jumbled way he revealed that—the cheeky “erm” rubbing against the stoical “I did some time”—suggested that Matty hadn’t yet figured out how to
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